Ruins
by changinlndscape
Summary: What if Cops and Robbers took place after 47 seconds? 2-shot, probably.
1. Chapter 1

**Ruins**

 _What if Cops and Robbers took place after 47 seconds?_

At least one more chapter after this one.

 **Part 1:**

 _Not like this._

When the bomb went off, Beckett's mind went grey. The world was suddenly quiet. The colors of the command trailer blurred and ran like over diluted watercolors. When she stepped sluggishly out of the still rocking vehicle, all she could see was grey. Grey smoke, grey flecks of ash floating down from above, ghostly grey-coated officers still braced from the impact or rising slowly from the ground, grey weapons drawn and ready and pointed at the grey bank building. Her ears were ringing; not from the blast but from panic, and all she could see was grey. All she could do was see the grey and taste the burnt dust and listen to the underwater click and whoosh of her heartbeat.

It took the better part of a minute for her thoughts to seep back in through the thick cloud. When they did, she jerked in surprise at finding herself standing still in the surrounding rush of activity. Esposito was shoving her vest at her, saying something, or asking, but she couldn't hear him at first. She asked him, " _What_?" and this time when he spoke she could make out the words.

"We're going in. You're coming?" He looked concerned but impatient. They both knew that this was no time for repeating obvious questions. Beckett merely nodded and thrust heavy arms into the vest, struggling then to slap the velcro closed and keep pace with Esposito.

 _Not like this. Not. Like. This._

Beckett needed to focus, but even though she was aware of her surroundings now she couldn't concentrate. She fell in step behind the team preparing to enter the blown-out entrance of the bank but she couldn't really focus on what was being said. Orders and details were heard and forgotten while her mind just repeated the same three words over and over like they had since Esposito had called her at home to tell her that he'd been on the phone with Castle when he'd been involved in a hostage situation. _Not like this_.

She found her footsteps echoing the beat of the mantra in her head. Her anxiety was cresting as they entered the smoky lobby and her racing heartbeat accelerated her body into a run and the words into a rat-a-tat-tat of jumbled unvoiced regret. _Notlikethis Notlikethis_. Castle had been angry with her lately, blowing her off and avoiding her calls and being an actual jackass and she had no idea why. Two weeks ago they had been on the verge of something more and then he'd tossed a tubful of ice water on their relationship, on their friendship, and she couldn't let it end like this.

"No," she groaned through clenched teeth, a vocal protest against everything she was feeling. She saw Espo's head whip around to see what was wrong. She didn't bother to explain, though, because she'd found her voice and suddenly she was yelling hoarsely into the dark, "Castle? Castle!"

"Hey! We're here!"

It was Castle's voice calling through the dark, a beacon of light and relief to guide them to him. Beckett's adrenaline spiked again, buzzing in her lips and in her heavy arms and metallic in the back of her throat. He sounded ok, and when she rounded the corner that finally revealed him to her she could see that he was, in fact, fine.

"Hey, what'd I tell ya?" Castle said to the roomful of other hostages. Beckett's relief was enough to weaken her knees and she knelt on the hard floor in front of Castle before she fell there. She smiled widely at him even as he hugged his mother next to him. When he turned back to Beckett his smile faltered, though she could see the longing in his eyes. Forgetting about the recent distance between them, she touched her hand to his shirt beneath the collar just to feel the warmth of him and the rise and fall of his breaths.

He was really and truly alive, and she'd never felt a relief like she felt now. But his brow furrowed and he glanced at her hand touching him. He made a small gesture with his bound wrists. "Could you…?"

"Oh, right, of course," Beckett whispered. She used her pocket knife to cut the zip ties, and then his mother's, and then stilled to look at him again. He was alive, but he wasn't looking at her and she hurried to fill the silence before it became awkward.

"Espo called, I was at home. I took a sick day." Heartsick, she had told herself glumly while she'd made the call with her face pressed into her damp pillow. "But he called and I came because I needed to make sure you were okay and you are ok and I'm-" She paused. Castle's face was drawn and grey, so ashy she wondered if she hadn't noticed that he'd somehow been coated in the dusty fallout of the explosion. "Are you okay? You look…." Instead of trying to search for the correct adjective, she reached out a hand to brush away the sickly color, frowning when her hand came away clean and his face remained ashen.

To her dismay, Castle grasped her wrist and pulled his face away from her touch. "I'm fine," he replied curtly. He withdrew his hand and stood, carefully not accepting the hand she offered to help him up. "Alexis, is she here?" He wasn't looking at her, already guiding Martha toward the exit with a hand on her shoulder.

"She's out in front of the building," Beckett murmured at their retreating backs.

Emotionally wrecked and feeling the start of the coming adrenaline crash, Beckett leaned against the granite wall of the deserted vault. In the quiet, she allowed her head to fall back and closed her eyes before the burn of tears was noticed by anyone else. Not that there was anyone around to notice. Esposito and Ryan were assisting the squad in charge out front, and Castle…. Well. Castle might not have cared if he had noticed.

She shouldn't be surprised, really. His attitude hadn't changed from yesterday, or the day before, but she would have expected the experience of being a hostage to warm him toward her. Wasn't this the kind of thing that made people reevaluate their lives and hold on to what was important? Maybe, she thought, that'd just been wishful thinking. Maybe he was showing her what was important, and it just wasn't her.

Beckett swallowed thickly and pushed off the wall, letting sluggish feet carry her through the semi-dark toward the relatively bright light of the doorway. When she stepped outside she squinted and slowly began taking off her vest. When her eyes adjusted, she scanned the scene disinterestedly. Esposito caught her eye and walked up to her.

"Our boy's ok," he said unnecessarily, narrowing his eyes at her. "Why do you look like your dog died?"

Beckett shook her head. "Just… long day."

Esposito stepped a bit closer and glanced over to where Martha, Alexis, and Castle were huddled together in a group hug. He lowered his voice. "Listen, whatever's going on-"

Beckett held up a hand. "Espo, don't."

He gave her a look and continued, "-that guy is crazy about you. Maybe something happened, and maybe you don't want to talk to me about it. But those kinds of feelings don't just disappear overnight."

Beckett wrapped her arms around her waist and averted her gaze. "All evidence to the contrary," she finally answered, struggling unsuccessfully to keep her mouth from contorting down into a frown.

"Maybe," Espo said slowly. "But like I said, those things don't change quickly. Just don't let whatever's going on go on for too long. Fix it before it turns permanent." Beckett blinked at the force of his tone and met his eye. He raised his eyebrows to make sure she'd heard him, then turned to go talk to the officer in charge.

Beckett hugged herself a little tighter and risked a glance over at Castle's little family group. She caught Alexis watching her over her father's shoulder. The girl, who had unloaded on Beckett when she'd seen the detective ducking the yellow police tape two hours earlier, smiled apologetically and gestured for Beckett to come over.

Beckett took a deep breath to steel herself and returned the girl's smile. She had taken two steps toward the group when Castle turned to look right at her, like he'd felt her impending approach. His look was scalding and she came to a clumsy halt, mouth half-open on a response she couldn't fathom, much less voice. Castle held her gaze, scowling, then turned his little group in the opposite direction. They headed off toward the street, undoubtedly heading home. Beckett wondered if this might be the last time she ever saw them.

Beckett turned her head away and gazed into the middle distance, the brightness of the afternoon in the clearing smoke a sharp contrast to the heavy darkness in her chest. In the beginning, she had never expected to be able to tolerate Castle. But they'd become friends, and then spent far too long brushing along the lines of something more. She'd learned to trust him and he'd become, perhaps, the best partner she'd ever had. Everything had been going so well.

She'd never thought it would end like this. _Not like this_. And she had no idea why he was so furious at her. With a sigh of defeat mingled with exhaustion, Beckett headed off toward her cruiser, parked haphazardly in the street where she'd jumped out of it in her urgency upon arrival. When she tossed her vest onto the passenger seat she noticed the thick layer of ash and dirt collected along the bottom hem from where it had dragged the ground as she let it dangle from her fingers.

For no real reason, Beckett touched a fingertip to the grime and rubbed her thumb and forefinger together, transfixed. The grey was the color of death and destruction and grit and ruins, and she could see it shading all of the landscapes of her life. The melancholic thought brought her back to herself, and she tossed the cruiser in gear to pull away from the crime scene. She needed to go home, and she needed to escape. There was some whiskey in her future tonight.

 **Thanks for reading! I haven't written fanfic in a LONG time, but as always all reviews are appreciated.**


	2. Chapter 2

The response to part one of this story was lovely, thank you all very much for your reviews/favs/follows. One more part after this.

 **Ruins**

 **Part 2** :

The whiskey wasn't helping; not that Beckett had really expected it to. But there had been a moment when she'd just entered her apartment and she'd told herself that the whiskey would help. She'd told herself it was the better option. In that moment, before she'd set her things down or turned on the lights, she'd felt the bile of the last weeks rising from the pit in her stomach to the ache in her throat and threatening to come wailing out. She had closed her eyes and felt the pull of despair and the passing desire to collapse and cry.

But that was not the version of herself that she was willing to be yet, at least while she still had some fight in her. So she'd turned on the lights and put her things down and retrieved a tumbler and a bottle of Basil Hayden that Castle had brought her one day saying it was, "The best whiskey he'd ever tasted" and to, "Save it for a special occasion."

Well, Beckett thought wryly, this probably wasn't what he'd had in mind. She poured herself a glass and took a sip while she was still standing in the kitchen, leaning a hip against the counter. It was as good as Castle had promised, but she didn't find any pleasure in it. Sliding onto a barstool, she sat numbly and turned the glass in her hands, looking into the amber liquid like a lonely person might look into a fortune teller's crystal ball. That is, not believing in any magic, not seeing any answers, but hoping they were in there anyway.

Beckett set her phone down next to her glass on the counter and considered her options. She could drink herself into oblivion, or she could give him a call. She drummed her fingers on the countertop, one hand teasing the edge of her phone case, wondering at the implications. But the thought of being on the wrong end of another of Castle's bitter quips sent a wave of anxiety roiling inside of her.

So she tossed back the drink, curling her lip through the burn and wishing for either courage or apathy. Whichever the alcohol would like to provide was fine with her. She quickly poured and tossed back a second glass but hesitated when she tipped the bottle to pour a third. Was this really the gravel road she wanted to go down tonight? Drinking socially was one thing, but she'd seen what the acrid combination of alcohol, grief, and loneliness had done to her father.

She set the bottle back down and let her head fall into her hands. She sat there for long moments, feeling too much but not thinking, wondering only if she should just go to bed. Then her eyes fell to her phone again and she straightened up. To not make contact tonight would be an admission of defeat. And Kate Beckett rarely accepted defeat so easily. So Beckett inhaled noisily through her nose and woke her phone with a tap and held it gingerly, as if the device itself was coiling to strike.

The loud knock at her door startled her so badly she fumbled the phone and then inadvertently kicked it when she tried to use her foot to break its fall. She teetered dangerously on her barstool while her heart rabbited in her chest. Her reflexes were too slow for the knocker and they knocked again even more loudly. Hands shaking with adrenaline and now something very close to fear as she realized there was only one person who could possibly out there hammering his fist on her door at eleven o'clock at night, she walked nervously to let him in.

Castle stood rigidly in her hallway when she opened her door, glaring at her with that same look he had used right outside the bombed-out bank that afternoon. When he said nothing, Beckett found she had no idea _what_ to say. She wondered what she would have said if she had worked up the courage to call him, but her mind was blank. She stood gaping at him and wringing her hands.

"Can I come in?" He growled the words.

Beckett stepped back and let him in. Silently, she shut the door and locked it, perhaps a subconscious desire to keep him there with her. Castle was prowling, moving slowly through her living space and radiating a kind of anger she had never seen in him before. She slipped past him and retook her spot on her stool, facing him over the wide expanse of the room. She waited, physically biting the inside of her bottom lip to keep from saying the wrong thing.

After a circuit of the room Castle turned to face her. _Study_ her, she thought. He didn't appear to find the answers he was looking for, and he blew out a loud and aggravated sigh. Hands clenched at his sides, he finally said, "I'm really, really angry, Beckett."

"I can see that," she replied quietly.

"Don't you know why?"

When she shook her head no, his anger and disappointment visibly melded into a deeper bitterness that carved lines in his face while she watched. "I thought we knew each other," he muttered. "But maybe not."

"We do," Beckett countered quickly. "I know you Castle. But just… please tell me why you're angry."

"It's not your fault, I know that." She couldn't be sure if the sidestep was intentional, or if he was even really talking to her now. He seemed to be self-soothing, and she frowned that it was even necessary. "And maybe I overreacted."

With that thought, Castle turned to look at her intently. He seemed to be reaching conclusions while he stared, and Beckett tried not to squirm in her seat. Her favorite author, the person she trusted most to make sense of the world when she couldn't, was only confusing her tonight. She could make almost nothing of his words, other than the fact that he was, as he said _really, really angry_.

Some time passed in silence while the two troubled friends looked at each other. Beckett was waiting, because they were so obviously at a precipice here, a shockingly quiet ultimatum of fate, and it seemed it was Castle's place to make up his mind. The signs were subtle, yet positive. She watched his shoulders drop as he relaxed a bit, and he took the final steps to stand at the counter with her. His gaze fell to the whiskey between them.

"That's not really a whiskey for getting wasted," he remarked, once again letting a non sequitur divert the conversation.

Beckett shrugged. "Well I didn't end up wasted, anyway." It sounded a little defensive, but only just so, and she could live with that.

Castle tilted his head slightly, the first animation from him in many minutes, many days really, and asked, "What stopped you?"

Beckett ducked her head and felt the rare stain of shame on her cheeks. "I didn't want to drink, uh, to excess while I was… sad. And alone." The thought sounded even more pathetic when she voiced it. She wished she hadn't.

Castle stood looking at her with his face telling her nothing, every aged line a deep shadow telling a little bit of his story. Finally, he said, "Then don't drink alone." He took the bottle and glass, and with a brow furrowed in unnecessary concentration, he refilled her cup. "How many have you had?" he asked.

"Two." Beckett watched him frown at the glass and again he went still for long enough that it began to feel like regret. But then he looked up at her, their eyes meeting as he tipped the liquid down his throat in one swallow. One eyebrow lowered at the burn but he remained otherwise unmoved.

"Now we're even." He spoke quietly, and Beckett wondered at his choice of words. Then he filled the glass again and slid it toward her. Meeting his eyes where they hid in the stark shadows of his brow, Beckett drank about half of the glass and slid it back to him. He finished it off and brought it down with a too-loud clunk on the counter.

The alcohol was only beginning to buzz in her head, in her lips, in her fingertips. There was still this palpable tension and residual anger, uncertainty in the way they stood on opposite sides of the counter. But that whiskey induced buzz at last gave her the smallest boost of courage, so she swallowed hard and dragged a hand through her hair. She poured again, the slightest tremor clinking the bottle to the glass, and paused. She sipped and extended her arm along the counter, glass in hand. Before she relinquished it, she asked softly, "Have we ruined any chance of us?"

Castle gently took the glass from her, both of them watching as their fingers brushed before she released her hold. But he didn't drink. Instead he let his chin drop to his chest and heaved an exhausted sigh. Still speaking in his disconnected, stream-of-consciousness way, Castle said, "I almost died today."

That was neither an answer nor a revelation but somehow it felt like an opening, or maybe an offering. So she rounded the counter and took one of his hands to lead him to her couch. Castle blinked in surprise but followed with only the slightest hesitation, his fingers loose in hers. She gestured for him to sit first and then sat very close to him, so close that their shoulders brushed. She leaned in, risking another rejection and ignoring his widening eyes, and brushed her lips against the stubble at his cheek, as close to his mouth as she dared. Because even if he was angry, she cared too deeply for him to not show some physical sign of affection. Then she turned her head to rest her chin on his shoulder, avoiding his gaze so she could whisper, "It would have killed me, too. I wish…"

But her courage waned and Castle grunted his discontent and prompted, "You wish what?"

There was a pained pause in which Castle could feel her swallow harshly again. Then finally she mumbled, "I wish I could have been there for you. After."

She moved her hand as if to take his again but wavered and rested it just above his knee. Castle's fingers flexed but made no move to bridge the gap. "I wished you were there, too. But…"

He sighed, and Beckett wondered if he was going to continue. Then he did.

"…you lied."


End file.
